Title: Social Deviants
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: PG13 for snogging with a forked tongue.
Summary: Crowley inadvertently inspires the existential movement.
A/N: Yes, so. I hate nunshavingfun for blindsiding me with bunnies. She may be the only one who appreciates this, but it was fun so it's ok. XD Much thanks to marilla82 for beta and dinner! I'm sorry if Sartre is out of character. :p
The room was dark, and the smoke from cigarettes and pipes, and the droning words of the café patrons blended together and left everything faceless and nameless. Every so often, a clear shout was heard above the din from one of the tables of philosophers or evangelicals, and gave character to the dullness caused by obscured vision and obscured minds.
"Ah, I missed France!" Crowley lifted his glass in toast to his edited memories. "It's been a long time, angel,"
"600 years, or thereabouts," Aziraphale agreed, and raised his glass and tipped the lip of it into Crowley 's glass.
"The rise of the proletariat has been a wonderful thing!"
"Crowley, you were against that, remember?" Aziraphale smiled, in spite of himself. He couldn't be too hard on Crowley. They'd both had their share of trials over the centuries. They'd been alternately at odds and inseparable. The one thing that remained a constant was The Agreement, and the nights of forgetful drinking that it brought.
"But I miss the clothing," Crowley said, trampling over Aziraphale's thoughts. He leaned back in his chair and rested his glass on his thigh. "And that instrument I got from that king. The wotsis. Piano type thing."
"The harpsichord," said Aziraphale. He leaned forward and tipped the top of Crowley's glass back up before it spilled down the demon's pant leg.
"Yeah, that! I loved that." Crowley loved things when he was drunk. It was how Aziraphale knew he was drunk, since he didn't act much different outwardly, except for when it benefited him. Or them, as they case may be. Aziraphale tried to stifle the blush that crept into his cheeks at the mental image.
"You didn't even know how to play it!"
Crowley placed his glass carefully in the middle of the table and rested his elbows on the edge. He steepled his hands and leaned over them. "Loved," he said in the tone Aziraphale knew brooked no argument.(1)
Crowley was beautiful when he was drunk. All flushed cheeks and dark hair curling slightly at the ends from the wine being sweated away. He reminded Aziraphale of the Cherubim. Not that Aziraphale ever mentioned such to Crowley. Aziraphale leaned forward and placed a small kiss on Crowley's temple. Crowley hissed and turned his head. He kissed Aziraphale deeply. Aziraphale yelped and pulled back. The Arrangement was one thing, but here in public was whole other thing entirely.
"And there, my friends, is our dilemma exactly," came a voice from a nearby table. It was a voice that had been interjecting all evening, usually accompanied by shouts of agreement, but this time the noise around him settled into murmurs. Aziraphale looked towards the other side of the café, suddenly finding the tile on the ceiling there very interesting. Crowley turned his head sharply to look at their commentator.
"A man who knows what he is and embraces it, and a man who knows what he is and fights it."
"Excuse me," said Crowley.
"You and your friend there, how long have you been together?"
Crowley blinked. "Since the beginning," he said. Aziraphale kicked him under the table. "Er, I mean, it rather feels that way."
The man grinned. His tablemates chuckled. Aziraphale hazarded a glance in their direction. The man was small and funny looking. His glasses did nothing to correct the fact that his eyes were off. Aziraphale grimaced. He probably had some horribly french name like Jacques. Aziraphale didn't like the way this was going at all. He had an itching feeling in his fingertips that he recognized as the need to discorporate something.
"Yes, I suppose it can, being tied to one person." Aziraphale felt Crowley tense next to him. He placed a hand on Crowley's thigh. "And a homosexual on top of it. Life will be hard, but those are your choices to make, to be sure."
Aziraphale sputtered and his grip on Crowley's thigh tightened. "A- a what?!"
"Surely you have heard the word before. You are deviant to society." It wasn't an accusatory statement, simply a matter of fact. That didn't serve to make Aziraphale feel the urge to discorporate any less though.
Crowley brushed Aziraphale's hand away and jumped from his chair. Within two strides he was standing in front of the man. Aziraphale saw the air behind him start to fold and roll into black wisps and hoped that Crowley was sober enough to not release his wings. That had caused problems in the past.(2) Crowley swayed under the influence of the wine. "Now you listen here. He is neither a homosexual nor a deviant. And he'd have to be a man in the first place to be either. He is above your classifications."
"Nothing is above classification," sniffed the man.(3)
"Ok google eyes(4), that's enough!" Crowley crossed his arms over his chest.
Aziraphale stood slowly and pushed his chair under the table. Then he walked over to Crowley and placed his hand on the crook of Crowley's elbow. "You're right dear, that is enough."
Crowley looked at Aziraphale and winced, ridding himself of the alcohol. Aziraphale nodded. Crowley let his arms drop to his sides, then he pointed a finger at the table. "You lot should know better than to use people as examples, especially when they're in ear shot. There are demons in Hell with better manners.(5)" He turned around to face the rest of the café. "And you others. What are you doing just watching this tripe? Don't you have better things to do!?" Crowley narrowed his eyes, which was intimidating even from behind the shades. At that moment everyone in the café took a sip of their beverages too hastily and spilled them on themselves.(6)
The café had gone silent except for the sound of napkins being patted on blouses and jackets. The group of philosophers at the table stared up at them; everyone else was staring into their coffee and wine. Aziraphale tugged lightly on Crowley's sleeve. Crowley turned and grabbed Aziraphale by the back of the neck. He pulled him close and kissed him again, harder this time. Crowley let his forked tongue dart out of his mouth with an almost silent hiss and Aziraphale tried to get a grip on Crowley's upper arms as his tongue licked up the under side of Aziraphale's. Several onlookers gasped. One applauded. The man in the glasses just smiled. With one last look at the philosophers Crowley stormed out of the café, pulling Aziraphale behind him by the back of the neck.
When they were out in the alley, Aziraphale ducked and pulled away from him. "You, you're not drunk anymore."
"And?" Crowley dug his hands down into his pockets and walked on ahead.
"And that's not a part of The Agreement."
Crowley stopped but didn't turn around. "Bugger The Agreement."
"Should we now?" said Aziraphale thoughtfully. He clasped his hands behind his back and caught up to Crowley so that they were standing side by side.
Crowley stood next to him silently, then he took two slow steps forward. "I hate France," he said finally.
Aziraphale took a step and leaned into Crowley. He placed another light kiss on the nape of the demon's neck. "You love it," the angel said.
(1)The last time Crowley had used that tone, Aziraphale had spent the better part of a decade trying to convince villagers that witches didn't inherently float any better than the rest of the population.
(2)There had been a stargazing trip in Galilee where a woman had seen Crowley's wings. Aziraphale had smoothed it over by giving her a 'message from god'. Crowley still teases him about the possibility that he'll immaculately conceive ducks.
(3)It is Sartre's motto to never lose face. Especially when you've been cursed blessed with one like his.
(4)This footnote is here sheerly out of the authoress' joy of creating footnotes.
(5)And there were. Hastur, sadly, had not learned from them.
(6)As a counter blessing, the cleaners on that block who had been in danger of losing his shop made enough money that week to stay in business for the rest of the year.